


Hot Under the Collar

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 06:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Hawkeye might not be Catholic, but he does have a confession to make.
Relationships: Father Francis Mulcahy/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	Hot Under the Collar

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, some religious rules are being broken here. I'm not out to offend anyone's faith - this is just a story and just for fun.

The sudden chill coming down off the hills had muted life in the army camp. Lights went out early; blankets were drawn up to the eyes and soft caps were pulled down over wind-reddened ears. Even the boys in the recovery room slept deep and quietly, leaving the night duty staff with nothing to write in their reports.   
  
Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce slipped from the Swamp, careful to quickly zip the tent closed against the cold. He could navigate the 4077th with his eyes closed, but tonight he fixated on a single, lonely light at the far end of the compound.   
  
He didn’t knock when he reached the priest’s quarters. Though a standard issue structure, the father’s homely dwelling radiated welcome.   
  
“Hawkeye!” The father sounded surprised at the appearance of his late-night visitor, but not displeased.   
  
“Father. Burning the midnight frankincense?”   
  
Mulcahy brightened and grew flustered at once - his customary response to Hawkeye’s wit. “Just reviewing some requests from the orphanage. You would be just flabbergasted by the scarcities. They can’t get pencils for their classrooms or thread to mend the children’s clothing!”  
  
Hearing the passion come into his voice, Hawkeye felt his respect for the chaplain increase and wondered if he should leave without disturbing the deep waters of Mulcahy’s gentle soul.   
  
“I apologize,” said the priest as the silence stretched. “I do get carried away when it comes to Sister Theresa’s.”  
  
“You have something you believe in. I admire you, Father.”  
  
Mulcahy grew flustered again and made a shooing motion with his long fingers, disconcerted at having those Atlantic blue eyes focused on him. Still looking down, he said, “But you didn’t come here to discuss the orphanage. What’s keeping you from your rest, Hawkeye?”  
  
The surgeon didn’t fidget; rather, a stillness seemed to come over his long limbs. The only indication that he hadn’t been transformed into a statue before Mulcahy’s eyes was the flash of his pulse in the pale column of his throat. At last he said, “Have you rolled up the confessional for the night, Father?”   
  
“Forgiveness knows nothing of hours or minutes, my son,” said the chaplain, entering his role. “But it was my understanding that you were an agnostic.”   
  
Half of Hawk’s mouth lifted in a wan smile. “I don’t know what I believe. I see miracles in the OR every day... and I see young bodies ruined and broken beyond recognition. But you’ve presided over a Buddhist wedding and a Hebrew circumcision - surely you’re up to listening to the sins of one of God’s prodigals?”  
  
“It is the straying lamb that most needs his shepherd,” Mulcahy conceded. “Should I get my stole and my collar?”  
  
Hawkeye waved him off. “No need. You give meaning to your symbols, not the other way around.”  
  
“Alright.” It was a flattering notion. He settled himself on the floor of the tent. “I’m ready to hear you.”  
  
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Hawkeye launched in. “That’s how it goes, right?”  
  
“Just so,” the priest assured him.   
  
“This is my first confession.” He took a deep breath and released it, staring away into the dark. “I... I’ve come here because the greater part of my daily life is an act. A lie.” He looked up then, seemingly relieved to have gotten the words out. “And because when I went over all of this with Sidney, he said I needed to tell someone so I could start to feel real again.”  
  
Mulcahy lost his composure for a moment. “And you chose me? Not the Colonel or BJ?”   
  
Hawk smiled at his surprise. “I’m just guessing, but I imagine that people have told you a lot of secrets, Father. Sometimes you probably feel weighed down by them - like they’re spilling out of your pockets or pushing down on your heart. But I’ve never seen you use your private knowledge to hurt anyone.”  
  
The priest knew that in his own way, the surgeon was asking if he would keep his confidence. “Nothing you say here will ever be transmitted to another living soul, my son,” he reassured him.   
  
“Thank you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, mussing his dark hair.   
  
Mulcahy knew the signs of a struggle; though Hawkeye wanted to talk, he would have to be drawn out. _A plan in the heart of a man is like deep water_, he recited to himself. _But a man of understanding draweth it out_. He ended with a variation on the prayer he always offered up before receiving a confession: _Lord, make me the man of understanding that Hawkeye needs in this moment. Inspire my words, open my ears to hear him, and grant that I should do no harm_.  
  
“You spoke of your true self and of being hurt.” He was feeling his way; it was the verbal equivalent of navigating slippery river rocks in the dark. “This secret- it holds a share of danger for you?”  
  
Hawkeye laughed (as Hawkeye _always_ laughed) but the sound had something of barbed wire and bitterness to it; the sound seemed to give him far more pain than joy. “Yes. And that seems so strange, especially here. I’ve been shelled and shot at, had jeeps blown up beneath me and patients attack me - I’ve even eaten three consecutive meals in the mess tent! but this... this could do ... could _z_ so much worse than all of that.”  
  
Mulcahy wanted to reach out - to wrap those long and trembling fingers in his hands until they stilled - but he was afraid Hawkeye would retreat. He’d always thought there was something of the lanky colt to the man - all skittish motion and ungainly limbs - but it never showed so much as when he was unnerved. “What could it take from you, my son?”  
  
“My friends. Respect. Not my family, thankfully - dad knows - but definitely my career.” He tried to hold onto the jokes that had always sustained him. “How’s that rate on the old Sin-o-meter, Father?”  
  
To his surprise, the priest smiled and said dryly, “I’ve heard worse. But then, they usually told me what it was I was hearing.”  
  
Hawk was winning his way free of the darkness he’d come in with. “You know what would be truly terrible, Father? An original sin. Right? Because then you’d have to come up with some kind of original penance! You should just be glad I didn’t come in hear wanting to confess I dueled one of my tent rats to a draw with a spoon!”   
  
They both chuckled at that.   
  
“This place delivers original penances enough,” said the chaplain, gently steering him back. His dark eyes asked, “Are you ready, now?”   
  
It was a New Englander that wrote of taking the road that knew fewer footsteps; perhaps, Mulcahy reflected, it was a regional trait to lean into the curves instead of walking straight ahead.   
  
“Father,” Pierce began his winding way, “I imagine that you’ve heard about my reputation with women.”   
  
Mulcahy nodded. He’d been on hand for more than a few demonstrations of the surgeon’s amorous ways - during film nights in the converted mess hall, in the halls of the hospital, and once when he’d stumbled into the supply shed without knocking.  
  
“What if I told you that that reputation is just as real, live, and authentic as the dearly departed Captain Tuttle who did so much for St. Theresa’s?”  
  
Mulcahy knew he shouldn’t approve of the Tuttle incident (it amounted to, essentially, _robbing_ the U.S. army) but the army had created the orphans the scheme had benefited, so he figured it would all come out in the wash. He wasn’t about to be distracted by remembrances, however. He gave the man before him a sharp look. “My son, Catholic or not, for a confession to have any legitimacy, the penitent must be truthful.”   
  
Hawkeye met and held his gaze. “Put any holy relic in my hand you want, Father, even up to the boxing gloves your Sister had blessed in Rome and I’ll swear on it.”  
  
“But, my son, I’ve seen you...”  
  
“Sure, sure,” Hawkeye cut in. “Flirting. Kissing.”  
  
“Setting up assignations,” the priest broke in dryly, in spite of himself.   
  
Hawkeye looked startled but plunged on. “Okay, yes, my dance card has always been full, but, Father, it’s a /ruse/.”  
  
Mulcahy remained skeptical. “So, you arranged meetings with these young ladies and then... what? Played checkers?”  
  
“Sometimes. Sometimes we drank coffee and pretended we were in a cafe with flowers in the window boxes. Sometimes we hiked around and looked at the scenery - Korea can be real pretty if you get past all the parts we’ve destroyed, you know.”  
  
“And this didn’t raise any questions? Didn’t they have somewhat different expectations for these evenings?”   
  
“You’d be surprised. Sometimes a little r & r is a better proposition than, well, a proposition!”   
  
Mulcahy decided to press. “But surely some girls,”  
  
“Yes. Some. That’s when the accusations came.” He held his eyes, communicating without speaking. _Do you understand_? they asked. _Do you see now_? “I’m sure you can imagine what those sound like. ‘What’s wrong with you?’” He asked in a high voice, impersonating one of his companions. “Sometimes I can play it off. Exhaustion. Stress in the ER. Worry about a patient. I guess those are technically lies, so feel free to add them to my tab, Father.”  
  
Mulcahy sensed they were drawing near the crux of the thing. “Go on, my son.”  
  
“Sometimes it goes from ‘what’s wrong?’ to ‘don’t you like girls?’” He broke off, looked pained. “Do I need to say the rest, father?”  
  
Mulcahy felt the pain in Pierce’s eyes move into his chest; it crowded his generous heart. “But surely, my son, you don’t think you’re the only one here...”  
  
Hawkeye broke out into a smile that made the priest wish for sunglasses. “Radar and Klinger, huh? I thought so. Good for them. Though how they’ll find a place that combines the charms of the Iowa countryside with those of downtown Toledo I can’t imagine.”  
  
The priest’s mouth was a thin line. “As you said, I am a keeper of trusts. I can say nothing about what either of those corporals confided to me.”  
  
Hawkeye was still grinning. “No need, Father. Klinger gets nearly as many letters from Ottumwa as Beej gets from Peg.”  
  
“If you can experience such joy for them, why do you imagine that happiness will be withheld from you?”   
  
His eyes went very wide; Mulcahy knew he had never asked himself this question.   
  
“I confess that I was expecting more condemnation, Father.”   
  
“Do not judge, lest ye suffer judgement in your turn,” quoted the priest. “I don’t condemn you, Hawkeye. I feel quite sure that Dr. Freedman didn’t judge you either. Stop judging yourself.”   
  
“You make it sound so easy.”  
  
“No. It will take practice and hard work. But you’re the hardest working healer I’ve ever seen. It seems to me that it’s time you use your gifts in your own service.”   
  
And with that he blessed the ailing surgeon and sent him to his rest.   
  
***  
  
In the weeks ahead, Hawkeye Pierce’s admiration for the chaplain only grew. Mulcahy had always inspired his admiration, of course. The priest was brave - even courageous- when it was required. He was a fighter. But he was also gentle. Hawkeye had watched him during triage. Some of the medical staff joked about the ghoulishness of a priest waiting for men to die. Hawkeye saw it differently. Because Mulcahy moved among those broken bodies, no one had to face the darkness alone.   
  
In their day to day interactions, there were no noticeable changes. But a warm undercurrent had formed. When he chanced to look up in the OR, he was met with Mulcahy’s reassuring smile - visible in his eyes even when he was masked. He felt lighter, easier in his skin. His flirting with the nurses - his cover story - lost its aggressive edge. He drank fewer martinis. And more nights than not, he ended up on the floor of Mulcahy’s tent, detailing the life he hid from everyone else and seeking forgiveness.   
  
It was an October night when he said those soothing words, loaned to him by the priest even though he lived outside of the faith. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”  
  
Hawkeye was looking down, solemn and somber as he always was as he began a confession. Mulcahy found himself smiling softly; Hawkeye’s visits were certainly giving him a spiritual workout, and Mulcahy loved few things so much as being useful. He should not say a prayer of gratitude for the surgeon’s conflict, but he loved having a purpose.   
  
“Father, you told me I might know joy, even here. But what if my joy infringes on the joy of someone else? Does my right to happiness stop at someone else’s nose?”   
  
_Ahhh_. thought the priest. _We come to it_. He was used to this thorny question. “Tell me, Hawkeye.”  
  
He expected to hear that Hawkeye had developed a crush on the married BJ Hunnicut. He felt sorry for the man, but he knew that Hawk was strong. He would recover and joy would come with another- someday.   
  
“Father, I almost told you this the first night I came. But I didn’t want to win my peace at the price of your discomfort.”  
  
Mulcahy choked.   
  
Hawkeye reached out and clasped his fingers - a quick, warm squeeze. “Do I need to say the rest, father?” His eyes were smiling.   
  
“I... I think I would like to hear it, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“I know you’re a priest. I know that even if you could feel something for me, your vows would be between us. But I think...” his voice shuddered. “I think it’s not wrong to tell you that I’ve started to fall in love with you.”  
  
“Ben...”  
  
Mulcahy had seen Hawkeye face up to shelling, to bombs, to gunfire, to blood spurting from wounds into his face. He had never flinched. He flinched now.   
  
“I haven’t heard someone say that for so long...”  
  
“Ben,” he repeated, and his throat ached with emotion. After a moment, he recovered himself. “It seems that you are not the only one with something to confess.”   
  
Hawkeye held himself still, afraid that if he didn’t, he would launch himself at the now-trembling chaplain. “I have a proposition for you.” Remembering how he had last used the term in the priest’s presence, he colored. “An idea. I have an idea. For us.”  
  
Not trusting his voice, Mulcahy nodded him on.   
  
“I don’t want to take you away from your vocation. But is it against the rules if we just hold each other?”   
  
It was technically against the wording of Leviticus, but Mulcahy had never had much use for Leviticus.   
  
Clinging to each other, they ended up face to face on the floor of the tent. For the very first time since being shipped to Korea, Hawkeye felt warm. Burying his face in Mulcahy’s neck, he failed to stifle a breathy moan. “Oh, father...”  
  
“Francis,” the chaplain corrected, “please.”  
  
“Francis, God, you feel amazing.” He nuzzled at his neck, breathing him in, scratching him with his stubble. When he spoke, Francis could feel his lips against his skin. “Do you think it’s against the rules to kiss you here?”  
  
“Ben, I’ll absolve you if it is.”   
  
***  
  
It became a ritual, an island of rightness pounded against by the waves of blood and pain and death that washed through the camp. Hawkeye never took more than kisses, though every straining muscle silently spoke of how hungry he was for deeper contact.   
  
Francis hungered too. Seeing the lean, lovely surgeon stride through the dust and ugliness of the camp like a figure who had just stepped down from a movie screen sent white-gold bolts of desire through his breast; the cross he wore there felt as warm as if it had just been lifted from a forge.   
  
The Father - fallen though he might be - knew what he wanted, but weeks passed before an opportunity arose to put into action what had come to occupy the majority of his waking thoughts and not a small number of his dreams. In between dreaming and fantasizing, he prayed for forgiveness - even though he knew better than most that he wouldn’t be forgiven for that which he refused to renounce.   
  
Francis Mulcahy was miles from any sort of renunciation when he stopped the jeep outside of the Swamp and called for the camp’s first surgeon. Pierce appeared with a smile but it left his eyes when Mulcahy told him about his mission.   
  
“Klinger reports that the fighting has stalled on hill 6-3,” said the priest, “so there shouldn’t be any casualties for the next several days. Col. Potter says he can spare you. Would you like to accompany me on a supply mission?”  
  
“I’d prefer if you took someone who’s willing to carry a gun, Father.” He leaned in so he wouldn’t be overheard. “You mean a great deal to me, you know.”   
  
Francis brightened and colored. “That seems like a good reason to come on this trip then, Hawk. There’s uh, there’s something I would like to discuss with you.”   
  
_That’s what I was afraid of_, thought the surgeon. “Now I insist you take someone else. I hate long awkward rides.”   
  
Francis shook his head. “I believe you are jumping to conclusions, my son. I neglected to mention that the trip necessitates an overnight stay in a way station.”  
  
Realization widened Hawk’s eyes and he let out a gleeful yip before doing a little dance at the side of the jeep. Once, Mulcahy had thought these antics were Pierce’s way of dealing with the stress of the war, but he had come to learn that when the surgeon experienced joy, it bubbled out of him. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, when happy, _was _effervescence.   
  
“I’ll be ready in three minutes.”   
  
Hawkeye was as good as his word and soon they were rolling down the dusty roads. For the first few miles they only traded soft smiles, but once they were past the two MP checkpoints, their hands found each other and joined.   
  
“You really scared me, you know,” Hawkeye said at last. “I thought you were getting ready for a Dear-Ben conversation.”  
  
“Why would you think that?”   
  
“Well, I’m asking a lot. I’m pulling you away from your calling.” He looked around for snipers. “And I still wish you would have brought someone with a gun.”  
  
Mulcahy held up his cross. “This has always served me better than any firearm. And you can’t lead someone where they don’t want to go.”   
  
The rest of their journey was devoted to work. They loaded the jeep down with supplies bound for St. Theresa’s (Hawkeye learned that Mulcahy was a shrewd bargainer) and then loaded the supplies into the way station to keep them safe for the night. Korea’s black market was far too active to leave anything out in the open. Their lunch and dinner came snatched from ration cans in between carrying boxes and crates.   
  
Then it was just the two of them in an empty way station, door shut and candle lit against the night. Hawkeye seemed to vibrate with kinetic energy, but he made no move. Finally, he said, “You know we don’t have to do this, right, Francis? I’m happy with what we’ve got - grateful, too. I never thought I’d get that much.”   
  
The priest was unrolling their blankets and spreading them over a pair of thin mattresses that had been propped against the wall. He looked up with very dark eyes. “Do you really think you’re the only one who’s been yearning?”  
  
Hawkeye made an involuntary sound in his throat, a sort of low moan, but he still didn’t move.   
  
Francis motioned him to the bed. “The door is locked. We’re away from camp. Please let me see you, Ben.”  
  
“Alright, but you lead. I don’t want to push you. Pressure you.” He looked ruefully at their surroundings. “And I sure wish I had something to make it more special. Satin sheets. Rose petals. Something.”  
  
Mulcahy chuckled. “You’re more than enough, Ben.”   
  
Hawkeye stripped off his shirt and sat down on the joined mattresses; Francis smiled to see that he was clearly a little nervous, afraid he’d be found wanting. Remembering his cocky swagger before the nurses, Mulcahy found himself charmed to be shown the man behind the facade.   
  
The priest allowed himself the slow pleasure of gazing at the surgeon’s pale shoulders, at the peaked nipples, at the dark line of hair running down from his chest - lower, lower... vanishing beneath his belt. Mulcahy wanted to undo that standard issue army belt, wanted to see the dark nest of curls between Hawk’s legs, but he knew that Hawkeye still felt shame and fear. He would have to be coaxed.   
  
So Mulcahy came closer, lifting off his own shirt as he drew near. He saw Hawk’s breath quicken and knew he expected a kiss. Instead, Mulcahy reached down and drew up his hand. Dark surprised eyes regarded him as he lowered his head and pressed his lips to a pulse he didn’t need to be a medical man to recognize as frantic.   
  
At first, all was silence.   
  
Then Hawkeye gasped. Mulcahy moved higher, slid his tongue over Hawk’s love line, drew a finger into his mouth. Hawkeye sank down, mewling, helplessly vocal.   
  
“How did you... how did you know?” the doctor asked, his hard breaths exciting the man eliciting them.   
  
“You’re a surgeon,” Mulcahy replied, leaving off the gentle assault. “I assumed you must have sensitive hands.”   
  
And then his lips were back at their work - worshiping each knuckle, each whorled fingertip, each ink blue tracery of vein. Once, to stave off sleep after sustaining a concussion, Hawkeye had rhapsodized about the wonders of the human hand. He tried to recall that speech in an effort to avoid melting right into the floor.   
  
He knew he was babbling, singing praises to that sweet, little mouth that was somehow everywhere at once - but he was oblivious to the way his hips had begun to rock.   
  
His eyes clenched shut when Mulcahy kissed the center of his palm and he admitted, “You could end me with this, you know. Just this.”   
  
The sincerity in his voice made Mulcahy pause and look up. That pause gave Hawk a moment to recover himself. “But if you’re going to, let me unzip these pants. I packed so fast I’m not sure I brought another pair!”   
  
Mulcahy shook his head; leave it to Hawkeye to manage a joke en flagrante! “I’m flattered that I could make you so forgetful,” he told him, hands at work on Hawk’s belt.   
  
Hawkeye could hardly believe what was happening. “You’re really going to...? I mean, what about you?”   
  
“I _want_ to,” Francis reassured him. “We have all night to get to me.” And then he drew him out with an expert touch, as if he’d undertaken that intimate office hundreds of times before. Hawkeye held out his hand again and tried not to pass out.   
  
One of the traits that defined Benjamin Hawkeye Pierce was his utter inability to shut up. He sang as he removed deadly, shining bits of shrapnel from broken bodies. He held shower dialogues with a rubber duck. To hear BJ and Charles tell it, he even talked in his sleep - an erudite stream of thoughts he hadn’t had time to vocalize while he was awake!   
  
So it came as no surprise to his newly minted lover that Hawkeye was very vocal as he began to shudder - or that he was very _loud_.   
  
But although they were away from camp, they were still in a war zone. To avoid announcing themselves to any North Koreans or Chinese that might be moving through the countryside, Mulcahy crushed that busy mouth under his own, swallowing his cries when the end came.   
  
Hair dark with sweat, lips swollen, Hawkeye flashed him a radiant look as his breath slowed. _Your turn_, those shining eyes said.   
  
He gathered Mulcahy into his arms and let his mouth visit the sensitive spot high on his neck before whispering into his ear. “What have you been imagining in your tent all these nights?”  
  
The question boiled down to: what do you want me to do to you? And Mulcahy blushed.  
  
“Tell me,” Pierce insisted. Then, “Wait - I have an idea.” He pushed their bedrolls against the wall and sat against it. He then motioned Mulcahy to sit between his legs. Hawkeye drew him back until his head rested against his shoulder. From this position, Mulcahy didn’t have to look him in the face when he confided his fantasies.   
  
“Those surgeon’s hands of yours... I want... I want to feel them on me.”  
  
He expected Hawk to say something flip like he sometimes would in surgery- “your wish is my command,” maybe, or something about house calls.   
  
But Hawkeye was incredibly gentle - almost reverent - as he helped him finish undressing. Francis trembled when he dampened his fingers before curling them around him and beginning to stroke.   
  
He was slow and purposeful in his motions and Francis could almost see him in his medical student days - clinical in the face of discovery. Or he would have seemed so, anyway, if the vein beating like wings in his throat hadn’t testified to his excitement.   
  
He slid a finger over the sensitive hood - bunched now - and began to trace the shaft. He seemed intent on memorizing every blood-thickened vein, in leaving his fingerprints on every inch. And everywhere he touched caught fire - a Hephaestus touch more than a Midas one. Although he had thought he would be embarrassed to be so exposed, Francis couldn’t stop watching as one hand stroked him while the other darted between his legs to leave stinging kisses on his aching sac. Mulcahy couldn’t figure out how Hawk could make those clever fingers feel like his tongue, but he didn’t care. Clear beads of moisture slid down his pulsing shaft in answer to those touches and sweat gathered at his forehead.  
  
“Oh,” he answered the motions of Hawk’s hands. “Oh, oh, oh.”  
  
Hawkeye was grinning ear to ear. “I think we’ve found your favorite letter, Francis.”   
  
“Ben!”   
  
“And I’m taking that as a rave review.”   
  
Chuckling warmly, fondly, the doctor worked him into a lather - then abruptly slowed. At first, Mulcahy thought he had just lost his rhythm. Beginning again, Hawkeye pushed him to the brink again - then braked. It took a few seconds of panting for Francis to regain his breath enough to say, “Benjamin, I’m starting to think you’re punishing me for your lonely nights.”   
  
That warm chuckle came again, bubbling through him like warm champagne. “Not at all. I’m just stoking the home fires. Haven’t you ever done it to yourself?”  
  
Mulcahy twisted to shoot him a look. “The Church insists on a perfect and complete celibacy.”  
  
Hawk’s eyes went wide. “You’re saying...”  
  
“That your experience somewhat outpaces mine.”   
  
Hawkeye turned him so that he could press his lips to his forehead.   
  
“Ben... what is it?”  
  
The surgeon held him close, breathing him in. “I’m so sorry, Francis. I didn’t know. I didn’t think.” He drew back to look him in the eye. “Now I _really _wish I had done more to make this special.”   
  
“I told you that you were more than enough. I meant it. Now, if you’re really not teasing, what are you up to?”  
  
“I was telling the truth. I was stoking you up. It will make the ending a lot more intense. Are you game?”  
  
Mulcahy agreed - but with one stipulation. “Ben, hurry!”  
  
This time, Hawk did tease, earning a sharp cry. “Benjamin!”  
  
“Ah, that’s my cue! The perfect blend of exasperation and fondness.” And with that, he delivered at last. Mulcahy would never admit it - but all those breaks had been worth it. The climax that had been just out of reach swept up from between his shaking legs. It bent him almost double and filled every nerve end with honeyed light.   
  
He drifted for a time - only returning when Hawk gently cleaned him up.   
  
“Hey Ben?” He finally asked.  
  
“Yes?”   
  
“There was more fondness than exasperation.”   
  
“I love you, too, dearheart.”   
  
They held each other after that, bodies shifting gently against each other under the covers. That might have been the end of it - they might have slept and woken up to make love in the first light of the morning- but Mulcahy made an accidental and fortuitous discovery.   
  
Hawkeye had stretched out, arms above his head - luxuriating in the afterglow. Mulcahy crawled up that long body to kiss him and closed his hand over his wrists. Pierce stilled under that touch - stilled deep down - and his eyes were black.   
  
It made sense. Hawkeye was the chief surgeon. The specialist. The expert. He was also the unofficial morale-keeper of the 4077th. Whenever someone was down, Hawk was there, lifting them up. He bandaged all wounds - physical, mental, and emotional.   
  
He never got to be vulnerable.   
  
Which made it a huge turn on.   
  
Playing his hunch, Mulcahy tightened his grip. Hawkeye gasped. His dark eyes were pleading, saying the words he couldn’t quite voice.  
  
Desperate to hide from the rawness of his need, Hawkeye tried to raise the shield of humor. “D-didn’t realize priests had a call to be so strong,” he said. “Is that from the boxing or wrestling with angels?”   
  
“A little of both.”   
  
The priest pressed full length against the body beneath him. Hawk answered with every muscle- rising as Francis ground into him. He never let go of the surgeon’s wrist. They rose and fell together, need answering need.   
  
“Gun oil,” Pierce croaked out.  
  
“What?”   
  
“In my pack,” said the surgeon.   
  
“I didn’t think you carried a gun.”  
  
“I don’t, but it will ease the way.”   
  
Understanding bloomed and he scrabbled after the medical bag. He didn’t let go of his wrist even as he upended the small glass bottle.   
  
But then he hesitated. “Ben, I don’t want to hurt you.”   
  
“I’m a surgeon, Francis. I’ll tell you if you hurt me.”   
  
They figured it out little by little - but when Mulcahy entered, he gave the highest cry he’d made since choir practice.   
  
Back arching, Mulcahy moaned and stared down in wonder. “Benjamin, I’ve never wanted anything in this whole crummy war. But I want a Polaroid now to hold onto the sight of you looking like this.” _You with me inside you_.  
  
Hawk shifted, trying to grind down harder on him. “What are you trying to do? Induce climax by flattery?”  
  
“You’re not vain enough for that. I’ll have to try another way.”   
  
That night, everything they tried worked. Later, Hawkeye would recall it as one of the war’s most miraculous days.   
  
When they left to return to the 4077th, Mulcahy turned to his lover and rested his fingers on his cheek. “It’s my turn for a confession,” he told the lean and lovely soldier, “That is, if you don’t mind taking on my role for a moment.”  
  
Playful as always, Hawkeye stole his hat and schooled his face into his best Father Mulcahy impression.   
  
“I don’t know where this will lead or when the war will end. When it does, I don’t know if I can return to the States when there are so many desperate children here. But I need you, Ben, if I’m going to make it through the ugliness and terror of this place. When you came to my tent, I told you to go blessed. But it’s you who’ve blessed me.”  
  
Hawkeye joined their mouths and then drew back a fraction; they were still sharing the same air, foreheads touching. With the look in his eyes, he promised to try to continue blessing his new love, even if the touches they shared went against the priest’s calling.   
  
“I understand if you ever need to give me up, if it’s too much of a conflict.”  
  
Mulcahy just smiled. “If anything, you’re a support to my faith. You’re living proof of God’s ability to work miracles. If anything, you inspire me to be a better priest!”   
  
“How?”  
  
“Well, Hawk, if I’m going to change the rules so that I can keep you, I’ll need to be a very important cardinal- if not Pope!”  
  
“If that comes to pass, it won’t be your ring I’ll be wanting to kiss.”   
  
They drove, laughing, into the sunlight.


End file.
